


I Have Told You Before (Don't Follow Me)

by KaelsMiscellany



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Lydia Martin, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Season 6a AU, Wild Hunt (Teen Wolf), the shipping is light hence the gen in relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 21:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11953203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaelsMiscellany/pseuds/KaelsMiscellany
Summary: “I do not ask for your attention great mother, I demand it!” Her words end with a shriek, her bloody palm smacking the top of the Nemeton, the rush of power unlike anything she’s ever felt; no wonder Jennifer did her sacrifices. “Your banshee daughter cries out for aid, and you will give it!”





	I Have Told You Before (Don't Follow Me)

**Author's Note:**

> So I actually wrote this before/after the 6A finale, only posting it now because why the hell not.
> 
> Title comes from "Fearless" by VNV Nation

_Remember, remember_. Lydia paces around Stiles’ room. If they could remember they could make a rift and start fixing all this. But no matter how much she looks around, no matter what item she picks up to stare at, she can’t. It’s if whatever relic might be for her isn’t here.

 _Or_ , a traitorous part of her murmured, _you’ve got more important things on your mind_.

Her heart aches as she recalls seeing Jordan, how he hadn’t even reacted to her. If they found Stiles they could find Jordan, find Douglas, find...a frown crosses her face, her fingers pressing into her side for some reason. Find who?

With a whirl and an aggravated sound she gives up, marching out of Stiles’ room and towards the front door.

“No luck?” The sheriff’s voice catches her off guard.

She shakes her head. “No, I’m...I’m gonna go home, get some sleep. I…” she drifts off, not sure exactly what she’s trying to say. Out through the windows she can see the sun begin to set, hear thunder rumble off in the distance. “I need to think.”

Footsteps make her turn and the worry on the sheriff’s face isn’t what she wants. “Lydia...thank you, for not giving up.” The words are not as comforting as she wants them to be. “For forcing me to face the truth.” She bites back a brittle laugh, she didn’t force him to do anything, not in the way he’s implying.

“Of course,” she however has no problem taking credit for things if he wants to give it to her. “I’ll be back later,” she’s not sure if it’s a lie or not.

His hand reaches out and squeezes her shoulder. “Stay safe.”

Again she bites back a laugh, right now she’s the safest person in Beacon Hills. The Wild Hunt apparently respect her, and with no one else in town it’s not as if she has to worry about criminals, or deputies stopping her if she speeds…

 _Jordan_ … She manages a tight smile. “Of course Sheriff.” Turning back around she opens the door and heads to her car.

Through the windshield she stares up at the night sky. With all the noise pollution she can’t see many stars, and it’s a new moon tonight, so it seems all unending blackness. Not exactly improving her mood. On the horizon thunder clouds roil.

“You were...respectful to me,” she keeps her gaze on those clouds as she speaks, as if she’s speaking to the Hunt itself. “Why?”

She supposes it’s because she’s a banshee, they’d left Lenore alone as well. That had felt different in her recalling of it. Lenore had never seen the Hunt after all, only it’s result. Lydia, Lydia had seen one, and _protected_ Liam from it. It almost has the feel of a riddle, ‘who does the Wild Hunt respect?’

Unknowingly her hands move, starting her car and driving towards a destination.

“You could have pushed me aside to get him,” but it hadn’t. “You had a gun, you could have shot him without hitting me,” but it hadn’t. “Why?” It niggles at her brain, as if she should know the answer but can’t remember it.

The bond between her and Jordan? She can’t even feel it anymore, like someone had put a wall between them. Her lips curl in a sneer at the thought of Douglas, some part of her swearing that he would pay for that. Jordan was _hers._

Her foot steps on the break, figuratively and literally. What? Jordan wasn’t hers?

Not that she has much time to dwell on that thought, not with the realization that she’s been driving without noticing it. That she’s in the Preserve, at an all to familiar spot.

A storm wind is howling through the trees around where she’s at, but she finds herself paying it no mind. Not even when she gets out of her car and it pulls at her hair and clothes. She only has eyes and attention for the Nemeton.

Pangs run through her, the last time she’d been here was with Jordan, back when they were...what? She frowns as she tries to remember, she cares about him, more than she can remember caring for almost anyone else. Then the summer heat had started coming and it was as if some great lethargy had come over her, like she herself had turned into the calm before the storm.

“Did you do that to me?” She accuses the Nemeton as she approaches it, the headlights of her car illuminating it, knowing full well it couldn’t respond. “I’m not connected to you, I’ve made no sort of deal.” That had been Scott, and Allison, and...a blank space that was probably Stiles. “You have no power over me.”

Except when Jennifer had been doing her killings all Lydia could do was draw roots. Jordan had been drawn here too, where he’d brought all the bodies.

“Nemetons,” she stops in front of it as she recites. “Were places of power, places where druids worshiped and practiced their rituals. It would stand in the center of a sacred grove, surrounded by the great trees. The greatest was said to have been at Tara, where kings were killed and kings were crowned.”

Blinking she realizes she’s started to bend down to touch it, she jerks her hand back, clutching it to her chest. “They were places of light, and darkness…”

She stares down at the stump, it’s barely visible rings. “You lost your darkness,” the idea comes to her out of the blue, a gift from the universe? The Nemeton itself? “You had the nogitsune trapped in you, but getting rid of it…” A frown mars her face as she rubs at the pulse in her wrist. “Getting rid of it meant you lost _all_ your darkness.”

Was that what Jordan had been trying to do? Had there been a secondary goal in all those dead bodies?

She feels as if there had been someone who’d know the answer to that.

Stiles?

Without conscious thought her head shakes, but instinct is right, it had been someone else, someone…

“So, what?” She needs to focus on what she _can_ remember, not on what she can’t. “The Hunt’s here, taking people...because, because something’s wrong?”

It feels as if half the time the person speaking isn’t her, but someone else using her to speak, someone who clearly has a better understanding of everything. Or perhaps it’s some strange part of her banshee powers, one she’s never tried to access before.

Whichever it might be, she thinks her question might be right.

The Wild Hunt after all brought nothing but chaos, loss, and voids. Things that no person wanted, well except Douglas. Even then he wanted to control the Hunt, to turn it towards his own aims and not let it do it’s own work. Anger flares in her at the thought, but it’s a sort of helpless anger, because so far he’s been doing exactly what he wanted. He’d gotten into the pocket dimension the Wild Hunt kept and was doing who knew what there.

Were Scott and the others any better? Thinking they could _fight_ the Wild Hunt?

It’s the _Wild Hunt_.

That just brings her back to Douglas, he’d made it weaker somehow, taken some of it’s power for his own. Turning what should have been an unstoppable force of nature into, well one that very well could be fought, for a brief time. If the skirmish in the tunnels was anything to go by.

Which is just... _blasphemy_ , to turn the Hunt into less than it was.

Again she finds herself pausing at that thought, not because it’s unexpected—she’d been having too many of those for it to feel all that strange—but because how... _right_ it felt. The Wild Hunt has been sullied, and what? Needed repairing? Purifying? Something like a snort leaves her. She guesses _she_ has to be the one to do it?

When she puts it like that it sounds laughably cliche. She’s a banshee, what does she know about purifying a force of darkness?

Yet here she is, having been somehow drawn to the Nemeton, for reasons that she’s not quite sure of. It’s a testament to her life that that doesn’t terrify her as much as it should. It’s just one more thing she has to deal with.

Rain begins to fall, the storm coming upon her, closing her eyes she tilts her face up to it, letting out that brittle laugh she’d held in at the Stilinski household. After all she has nothing to fear here except possibly getting sick, and even that seems a far and distant possibility. Why should she have to run away and cower?

She is a _banshee_ , bound by death to hellhounds, respected by the Wild Hunt.

Opening her mouth even more she let loose a scream, the high sharp sound filling the air, and for a second it feels as if the rain stops falling on her—then again her scream could repel people, so why not rain as well?

Trusting herself, something she hasn’t let herself do in so long, she reaches into a pocket and pulls out a small knife. She stares at the pocket knife for a moment, wondering where the hell she’d gotten it. Only to realize she’d taken it from Stiles’ room. A soft laugh leaves her.

She pushes those thoughts aside; opening the knife she tests the edge before driving the blade into the side of her arm, hissing at the pain. Pulling out the knife she waves both her arm and knife over the Nemeton, not quite all herself. “Morrigan!” It feels strange speaking in her scream, like the two should be incompatible. “Threefold queen.”

Nearby lightning strikes. The light of it almost blinding, leaving strange after images in her eyes—horses and a motley of beings riding them, a woman with raven feathers for hair, eyes deathly green.

“I do not ask for your attention great mother, I demand it!” Her words end with a shriek, her bloody palm smacking the top of the Nemeton, the rush of power unlike anything she’s ever felt; no wonder Jennifer did her sacrifices. “Your banshee daughter cries out for aid, and you will give it!”

This time the lightning happens right on top of her, the power of it throwing her away from the Nemeton, eyes blinded.

Yet there’s no equally deafening clap of thunder, only silence. Silence broken by the guttural croak of a raven.

When the light clears from her eyes she’s grateful she can’t lose her footing in surprise; because she’s surrounded by the Wild Hunt. Her head whips around, a more distant part of her brain counting them as she does so.

Twelve, and an empty space where a thirteenth should be.

Panic starts to crawl up her throat, but she beats it back, she has nothing to fear. They won’t touch her, in fact all they’re doing is standing, watching her with their empty eyes.

Half afraid her legs won’t support her she stands, grateful when they do. The Riders do nothing, just watch her. The nearby raven croaks again, and out of the corner of her eye she spots it. The bird looking a bit bedraggled from the rain, but otherwise unbothered by everything.

Arm trembling she raises her bloody palm out to it, not quite sure what she’s exactly doing, but finding herself committed to it—it might not be her best idea, but honestly she’s see Scott win on worse.

It’s head tilts, as if examining her, but it defies her expectation and doesn’t fly to her hand.

Instead its one of the Riders who does. Despite knowing she’s safe fear roots her to the ground. Body caught between fight or flight as it stops right in front of her. It’s gloved hand reaches out and gently, she hadn’t realized a Rider could _be_ gentle, grabs her wrist. Her whole body moving when it places her hand on it’s chest.

Lydia feels like she’s just been zapped by a lightning bolt, her whole body seizing at the contact. It’s like the Nemeton’s power times a million, coursing through her and it’s too much, too…

It’s not a scream that tears from her mouth, but a wail, low and mournful; a dirge for the dead, and for those who would die.

She snatches her hand away from the Rider, but the power doesn’t fade like the Nemeton’s had. It keeps coursing through her, demanding fulfillment she’s not sure she can give. She’s a tesla coil with nowhere to discharge.

The jangle of spurs draws her attention, but she can’t do anything about it, not when she’s got to find a way to deal with this power in her. Worn leather encircles her wrist once more, and again she touches dried flesh, another scream tearing from her throat as even more power fills her. No, she can’t…

Again and again, until all twelve bear her bloody print, until she’s so overflowing with power she can’t breath from it.

Yet somehow she still stands, is still alive. A miracle all on its own.

 _“Our queen…"_ The voices are the skitter of dead leaves in the wind, the dark of night itself. _“Make us whole and we will follow you Morrigan.”_ They surround her, their circle tight, yet still a gap for their missing leader. She knows it’s the leader now they’ve lost, with power comes knowledge and she’s luminous with it.

They came on the storm to bring the darkness the Nemeton lacked, but it went awry, pulled astray by so many things. She _could_ set them right, she _can_ take this darkness, this death’s domain. Love it as she has learned to love her scars and flaws.

She knows their pasts, their histories, their _names_. These twelve men, women, and other are open books to her, it’s a richer tapestry than she ever could have expected. She knows exactly what she needs to look for in their leader. She knows in their minds it will be hard to have a replacement for Adonis.

Standing there, nearly exploding with power, she almost finds herself overwhelmed.

But she is Lydia fucking Martin, and she hasn’t let worst things get the better of her, so why should this be the straw that breaks the camel’s back?

Pulling herself up to her full height she juts her chin out, she can’t change her appearance, but she can damn well make _herself_ feel like she deserves this power. Which is all that matters, it’s all that’s ever mattered.

“Let us ride,” flush with power her voice is a storm, echoing like thunder; sending the ravens and crows around them flocking in the air, a cacophony of a herald.

Whinnies fill the air as the horses come, their bonds with their riders as deep as souls. There is no thirteenth horse, Adonis’ mare died with him.

 _“Morrigan.”_ Yu offers his arm, she has no horse of his own, and his offer is one she’s thankful for. He hauls her up as if she weighs nothing, to them she probably does. She clings to his back as he kicks his horse into a canter.

She has to peer around him to see where they’re going, but the ripple if green is familiar to her now. Now there’s no fear of it, no need to try and think of a way through, she’s _more_ than even the Hunters are, it will be as easy for her as it is for them.

It feels like nothing at all. They’re no longer in the Preserve, but in a forest much deeper and vaster than could ever be contained on Earth. Somewhere in it is the dark heart of the Hunt, that which Douglas seeks to gain and so control the Hunt.

There is a more important matter to deal with right now.

Yu, whose appearance has changed—same as the others—to fit what he _really_ looks like. The fine silks of his robe far easier to grip than the duster they had in the mortal world. Here they didn’t have to terrify, not in the same way, here they could be themselves and not the Hunt. He’s only a few inches taller than her now, black hair pulled back into a bun.

Here there are no guns or whips either, a bow and arrow lies strapped to the saddle next to Yu’s left leg. When she glances over to Artemis she sees another bow and arrow set. There are swords as well, even a sling shot, and yes a gun—Reeves, the newest member, he who lends the rider appearance.

The Hunters do not stop, riding deeper and deeper into the woods. Towards their newest cache, towards those who might join them. Towards Stiles, and Mason, and Hayden, towards every other citizen of Beacon Hills. Towards Peter.

There’s something amusing at having forgotten him, _again_. He’s been such a thorn in everyone’s side, that it almost seems like justice of a sort.

But that’s not important either.

When they get there it’ll be up to her to decide which will join the Hunters, which will become their new leader. Then, whole and complete, they can take down Douglas and free Jordan.

As if the thought of him summoned them, she hears the soft padding of paws, and when she looks around she sees they’ve been joined by hounds, black fur laced with pulsating embers.

Hellhounds.

Crystalline laughter leaves her, shattering the quiet of the forest as they ride ever onwards.

-

Stiles paces the length of the station, eyes darting everywhere as he tries to work off his nervous energy. Both things help with staving off the lethargy that seems to fill most of the people here.

A number that’s grown since he’d first become aware. Melissa and Argent, Mason, Corey, Hayden; even Peter again—because he could Stiles’d asked him how he’d gotten back, only to get snarled at before Peter retreated. It’s only a rough count, but he’s pretty sure the whole city’s there, save for a few. He finds himself both hopeful for, and dreading, the moment the Riders bring his dad in.

All the new arrivals, new arrivals that _know_ him, means that he’s got more people to talk to, and that he knows what’s been going on—at least some of it.

He still can’t wrap his mind around the idea of a nazi werewolf, it’s just so...absurd. Let alone one that apparently has gained the powers of the Wild Hunt and taken control of Parrish. It’s like the plot of a F-list horror movie—the kind Scott still wouldn’t watch, the doof.

Footsteps break the quasi-silence, and he finds his head turning towards the tracks, someone’s coming, yet it doesn’t sound like the Riders. Douglas maybe? His ears strain to hear the sound in the echoes—maybe he should go wake Hayden up, see if she could hear any better.

It becomes a moot point a few seconds later though when...holy shit, is that Lydia?

The woman...looks like Lydia, yet she seems to...anti-glow? Is that a thing? It’s not that she’s absorbing the light around her, it’s just that...he frowns, not exactly sure how better to describe it. Her hair looks like it’s been spun out of gems and gold however, and her eyes are an eerie pale green.

She _looks_ like Lydia, but Lydia would never wear a tiny black dress like that, or carry a scepter—no matter how much like a queen she acted. She sure as hell wouldn’t be walking in front of twelve other people who looked like they’d come from the most diverse ren faire ever.

Like she weighs nothing, or perhaps gravity doesn’t apply to her in the same way, she rises up from the tracks to alight on the platform. “Awake all ye sinners,” the voice reminds him of distant thunder on summer nights, soothing and far away. Yet in it he _can_ hear Lydia’s own voice. Had something happened to her? Had Douglas somehow gained control of her too?

“Come and lay yourselves before me, come and perhaps you shall be chosen.” She raps the end of her scepter—he can’t even begin to describe it, because it goes...weird the longer he stares at it—against the floor of the platform and the whole station shakes. “You will be reborn as the fear in all mortal hearts, as the skittering in the darkness.

“Come to me and I will make you powerful beyond your wildest imaginings.” Despite her impassioned words her whole face remains expressionless, as if they mean nothing to her, and it’s creepy—well alright this whole thing is creepy, but really.

Because he can’t help himself he takes a few steps towards her, but before he gets much further Peter’s there. Of fucking course.

His eyes are glowing blue and he stares down at non-Lydia almost in...fear? Huh, cool.

“I offer myself,” Peter might be afraid, but his words are calm, and really, of course Peter would offer himself up, power was the only thing that bastard cared about.

Those pale green eyes seem to stare right through him as if he’s not there; and ha, wouldn’t that be just deserts? “Any others who would throw themselves on my mercy?”

A few quiet mutters pass through the crowd—it takes that to realize that everyone in the station seems... _aware_ now—but no one else steps up. Stiles finds himself chewing on his thumb, should he or?

The question gets yanks from his hands when non-Lydia raises her hand up and rests it on Peter’s cheek, she moves it down, and just like that she pulls him down onto his knees. If Stiles weren’t afraid something horribly wrong had happened to her it would be kind of amazing. “Peter Malachi Hale. You would throw yourself to the Hunt and to myself? You may not survive.” It almost sounds like an out.

“It would be worth it,” it almost sounds like a jeer. Non-Lydia laughs, the sound like electricity in Stiles’ teeth.

She bends down, “then let us see what power you can truly contain.” She kisses him, and it’s both disgusting and engaging.

“Lydia!” He can’t hold himself back anymore, he’s got to know. He steps closer, but finds himself halted a foot or so away. His gaze darts to those twelve still on the tracks to see they’ve tensed, hands on various weapons, as if waiting to see what will happen.

Non-Lydia doesn’t answer right away, not until she pulls away from Peter and he collapses on the ground, his whole body shivering and twisting, his mouth opens but no sounds come out. “You should have offered yourself sooner Mieczysław,” somehow the most frightening thing is how perfect her pronunciation is. Her head makes a bird like tilt as her hand rises up to point at him.

“But no, you rejected the darkness in you.” Now he knows what Peter had probably felt with those pale green eyes looking right through him. “Shed it as snakes shed skin. You have done horrifying things, yet their stain is no longer upon you. No, you would have failed. Scott saved you, even from yourself, and did you the greatest of disservices.”

She looks from him back down to Peter, who’s stopped twitching but is still not all there.

“What did you do to Lydia?” Stiles demands.

In a flash she is before him, and despite the fact he’s got a good ten inches on her she towers over him. “I have done nothing she did not ask for. She screamed my name on a storm, demanded me in blood in a place that seeks the darkness to balance it’s scales. How could I ignore such a thing from a most holy daughter?” Her hands cup his cheeks, sharp nails breaking skin as they dig in. “We are the Morrigan and you are nothing more than a terrified mortal who thinks he can take us down because he has faced himself. Fool.”

He cries out in pain as those nails rake down his cheeks when she pulls her hands away. “Such a bright light as you contain can do nothing to me.”

The hem of her tiny black dress seems to float on an unfelt wind as she glides back over to Peter. “Will you rise? Or shall we have to seek older fare?” Her head tilts again, as she stares down at him.

“Stiles.” Melissa’s voice startles him and he whirls around, it hurts to smile when he sees the concern on her face, but he can’t help it. “Are you alright?” She must have seen what happened, and he shrugs.

“She’s wrong.” Pain fills him as he speaks, and he finds himself biting back another smile as she pulls out gauze from a pocket. “We can save Lydia.” He won’t allow anything else.

-

Peter had thought it would be like joining a pack, if one vastly different than any other in the world.

He’d never been more wrong in his life.

The pain’s subsided, but he’s overflowing with power, and his mind’s now filled with twelve others. Strangers watching his past as it plays through his mind.

Page’s death, his college affairs—the power overwhelms whatever lock Talia had put on him, he can see it all now, remember that terrifying feeling of falling that had been love with Corinne—the fire. His coma, how he’d fought tooth and nail every full moon to gain just that bit more of himself. Laura’s death and his alphahood.

The twelve laugh at him as they watch his attack on Lydia; he can feel their thoughts, how absurd they find it that he thought he could touch such darkness and escape unscathed.

It seems as if Lydia is getting the last laugh on him. He thought those five weeks in her mind showed him everything she had to offer—and what offerings she contained. Never in his wildest imaginings had he thought her the avatar of the Morrigan, one of her daughters, sure. Yet never this.

It’s a wonderful realization, the fact that she will never cease to surprise him.

For if he becomes of the Hunt and she is the Morrigan then they will be entwined forever now.

All he has to do first is survive.

That is what he’s best at.

-

The gauze feels weird on Stiles’ cheeks, but he’s going to have to live with it—part of his brain’s stuck on the tangent of whether or not the scratches will make cool scars. Both Melissa and Argent are worried, reminding him of Argent and Peter’s own Hunt induced injuries.

He can’t believe she’s part of the Hunt, Lydia’s a banshee yes, but that doesn’t make her _evil_.

As if she can read his thoughts non-Lydia looks at him again, a sound of amusement leaving her. “Did you once not say she was sixty percent evil Mieczysław?” An all too Lydia roll of her eyes. “You are so quick to paint the things of the dark as evil, and yet her as ever good. Because how could you love something evil?” Derision drips from her every word and it makes him feel tangled up inside.

He doesn’t get the chance to respond however before Argent steps up next to him. “What about the rest of us? Are we trapped here?”

“No.” Non-Lydia flicks her hand and a doorway appears in the middle of the platform, it swings open on it’s own and Stiles sees the familiar woods of the Preserve on the other side. “You may all go, one has offered and been accepted. You all have no more purpose.”

At her words Stiles looks down to see Peter pushing himself upright, bastard; of _course_ he’d survive. Fucker was harder to kill than a cockroach. He stands upright and dusts himself off, he doesn’t touch or even really go near non-Lydia, but the way he circles her to jump down off the platform feels creepy enough as it is.

She turns, seeming to float as she reaches the edge of the platform. Peter offers her a hand down, but before she can accept Stiles steps in. “Lydia, what are you doing?” This isn’t her at all and it’s just _wrong_ to see her like this. He glares at Peter as if somehow this is all his doing—and honestly Peter’s conniving enough that it could be.

Fresh pain radiates from his face, even though all she does is look at him. “We have business to attend to, Mieczysław. Go home, tell your dear Alpha what has happened if you wish, but I cannot rest while there is a threat to my own.”

Right, Douglas, still something they needed to worry about. But honestly. “Come back with me, you know we’re stronger together. You, me, Scott, Malia, the betas, we’re pack Lydia.” Reaching out he grabs her wrist, only to be stopped before he can even get a real hold.

“Stiles, Stiles, Stiles.” Peter tuts it, shaking his head all the while; his voice has changed, become raspier even as it stays smooth. “I wouldn’t touch her if I were you, you remember that poor boy don’t you?”

He shivers as he does, tried to get through the Rider’s portal and turned to nothing but dust. “Go home Stiles,” using his hold on Stiles’ wrist Peter pushes him back towards the door—where already there’s a steady stream of people walking through. “Mortals have no place in the dealings of the Hunt.”

Peter lets go of Stiles hand, and as if even using that hand is beneath touching non-Lydia he offers her his other one. She takes it and floats down to the tracks light as a flower petal,  not even sending up the barest plume of dust as her bare feet make their way towards the other twelve.

“Stiles,” it’s Melissa again, and he finds himself torn. He wants to go to Lydia, save her like he has before. He’s not wrong about them being stronger together; with Scott and the others at his back it’ll mean he’s even more likely to succeed. Follow or go? Go or follow? He runs an angry hand through his hair.

Melissa’s hand lands on his shoulder. “If you think for one second I’m going to let you run off injured and unarmed you’ve got another think coming buddy,” fierce love fills her voice as she stares him down.

“Alright,” he sighs, turning with her and heading to the door.

It’s the hardest five feet he’s ever walked.

-

Peter’s never ridden a horse before. He finds it’s the easiest thing in the world to swing himself up onto the saddle of his mare—and she _is_ his horse, it’s not quite the same bond as that he has with the other Hunters, or even with Lydia, but he can feel her on the edges of him.

Turning he offers his hand to Lydia. “May I have the honor?” He is the leader of the Hunt after all, it’s his right to ask her first if she would ride with him.

“You may,” she agrees, holding her hand out for him. He hauls her up easy as breathing, the spider silk of her dress tickling his skin, her starry crown buzzing against his chin. She is autumn in human form and what else can he do but follow her wishes. “Let us ride,” thunder overhead echoes her. “Let us teach that foolish mortal what it means to be the Hunt.”

Cries of assent fill the air, and it’s only a thought to get his horse to galloping, the others following his lead.

Lydia’s hair whips around him, no better banner do they need. As they travel he can feel the hellhounds, feel the darkness growing in him as they get closer to the heart of _them_. He can even feel the sickness that is Douglas; how the man picks and pulls at them, trying to lure them in.

As a twelve, without Lydia, they might have been swayed. But they are thirteen strong again, they have their Morrigan to keep them. It makes them untouchable. Not that Douglas seems to understand that.

The oak tree is an ancient thing, nearly collapsing in on itself under the great weight of its innumerable branches. It’s trunk has been hollowed out, darkness thick as vines emerging from that space and clinging to to the tree like spiderwebs, dripping from it like moss.

It’s almost more beautiful that Lydia.

“Ah.” He’s never met Douglas, or heard his voice before, but the Hunt has, and Peter finds himself on the alert at the sound. “This is it then.”

The man doesn’t even seem to notice them as he approaches, his eyes only for the tree, behind him trails Deputy Parrish, still in his human form.

When Lydia moves he helps her dismount, following her as the others do. “Garrett Douglas!” Her voice is the howl on the wind. Above them a storm roils. Lydia was right, he _is_ more powerful that he could ever hope to be, moreso here in this place.

Douglas turns, eyes eerie green as he gives a wolfish smile. “Ah Fräulein Martin,” The smugness radiating from him will be so satisfying when it turns to fear. “And the Hunt?” The man tuts. “What have you done Fräulein?” He’s tone is chiding, and it takes everything in Peter’s power to just not go over there and tear him asunder. Lydia has a plan, and it would be poor of him to ruin it after all she’s done for him. In a way it’s _fun_ to watch this man be taken in by his own surety.

Lydia’s smile is beatific as she takes a step closer to Douglas and the oak. “More than you ever can.” She holds her hand out, beaconing. “Jordan.”

Douglas laughs. “Ah Fräulein, your pretty words won’t be enough to get him back.” Reaching behind him the pulls out the whip and begins unfurling it. “I wonder what will happen if I use this on you here? Will you go to another dimension perhaps? Back to our own? Or will you just die?” He shrugs. “I guess it doesn’t matter, either way the Hunt is mine now, after all this time.”

Behind him Jordan’s markings flare, and Peter has to bite back his smile.

The whip cracks and Lydia’s other hand shoots out, the leather coiling around her wrist, until her fingers curl around it.

Douglas narrows his eyes and clearly tries to use the power he’s stolen, and that first whiff of fear when it doesn’t work is so sweet. The foolish mortal tugs on the whip to try and pull her to him, but she is as immovable as the oak, and no matter how much he tugs she stays.

Her free hand rises up, fingers curling as if gesturing someone closer. Then she snaps her wrist, fingers flying out to sweep across Douglas. She says nothing, but the gesture is clear enough.

A rumbling snarl comes from Jordan and Douglas turns his head slightly, snapping at the hound in German to be quiet. He futilely tries to pull on the whip again, and again it does nothing.

Jordan steps forward, his hands coming up to grab Douglas’ face from behind. “ _Loslassen_.” Ah, it’s so amusing to see the mortal think he still has control over Jordan. Heat fills the area—and Peter has no fear of it now, now that he’s beyond mortal—as Jordan’s hands begin to shimmer. Soon the smell of burning flesh and hair fill the air.

Even though it shouldn’t be possible Peter still watches burns spread across Douglas’ skin, skin cracking and fat bubbling in a way all too familiar to Peter.

It happens so fast that Douglas doesn’t even get a chance to scream, pain there, and gone as the heat cooks his nerves. Jordan lets go, Douglas collapsing to the ground with a squelch and hiss. His healing works slowly, but it’s working. Jordan doesn’t care anymore, stepping over the man and heading towards them, towards his Hunt and his Cry.

Lydia walks towards him, hand briefly trailing down Jordan’s arm—and Peter finds he cannot even be jealous anymore, if she loved him he’s not sure he could stand the terrible weight of it alone—as she passes him. She kneels in front of Douglas, whose eyes turn to her and glare balefully.

“Do you know who I am?” her voice is deceptively soft.

While Peter’s attention is on that he also finds himself reaching out to grasp Jordan, stopping the other man’s robotic walk. “Breath Parrish, you’re safe.” It feels strange, but also right, to be offering him this comfort. Ereshkigal quickly steps forward to take Jordan from him and he lets her, his full attention on Lydia.

“Lydia…” Douglas it seems still can’t speak fully—lungs probably nothing but dried husks at the moment thanks to Jordan.

But that is enough of an answer for her, and her hand flashes out. Douglas only managing a raspy shout as she plucks one of his eyes out. “No,” she tells him. Holding her hand with the eye out she smiles when a raven lands on it, the bird consuming the eye in a single gulp. “Greedy,” she murmurs fondly.

“You know who I am, but you’re too ashamed to admit you were beaten by a woman aren’t you? A mere child at that.” Even if he can’t see it Peter knows the smile that’s on Lydia’s face. For a second she is not just one Lydia, but three; all of them glorious and full of power. Just the barest taste of what Lydia now contains. “That hardly matters, because now I need you to do something for _me_ Douglas.”

Douglas’ body is healing enough that the burns are probably superficial now, and his eye’s even starting to grow back. As if in retaliation for this Lydia plucks out his other. The raven gobbling it up like the other. “What?”

She stands, the raven leaping from her hand and taking flight again, circling. “You’re going to run,” her voice is cheery. “My Hunters need good sporting game, and you seem the perfect sort don’t you think?”

With a tilt of her head she swoops down birdlike and grasps what hair he has left in her hand, pulling him upright and making him cry out in pain. “ _Nein.”_

Laughter leaves her at his refusal. “Perhaps I told you that wrong, you _are_ going to run. Whether you want to or not.” The air around them shimmers and Peter feels a flicker of surprise as he watches her turn Douglas into a stag—not a pretty one by any stretch of the word, fur patchy with burns, one eye missing and the other half grown, but the rack on it _is_ impressive and deadly looking. “The only question was whether or not you would do it as a human.”

In the distance Hellhounds bay and the stag staggers to its feet, managing to run for a few feet before knocking into a tree, it begins running the other way. Peter feels this will be a short hunt.

Still Naga pulls out their horn and blows, and Peter can feel the Hunt singing in his veins. He resists it for now, he has other things that need done first. He finds it easy enough to hold Jordan back with him, the other man still in his fugue state, although most likely aware.

Lydia returns to them, her head still tilted and a small frown on her face. “Do you not like my welcoming gift?”

Risking much he ducks down and lays a kiss on her temple. “Oh, I do sweetheart, so very much. I need to see you home safe before I can properly enjoy it.” While he leads the Hunt he doesn’t need to be part of most of this revenge, leave that for the ones who ache for it.

“And him?” Deathly eyes look at Jordan.

“Someone to watch you,” because she allows it he lifts her back onto his horse. “Considering how much you care about him it seemed a fitting choice.”

An amused sound leaves her, but there’s a satisfied smile on her face. “Some would say you’re overstepping Peter.” She hardly seems put out by it.

Leaping on behind her he closes his eyes and focuses, he’s never opened a trans-dimensional portal before after all, and he’d rather not shred them if he can help it. “It seems to be something I excel at,” is his cheeky reply as he nudges his horse into a walk and back into Beacon Hills, Jordan following.

-

Sunlight streams through Lydia’s open window and she makes a sound of annoyance as she tries to shift away from it.

Only to encounter what seems like miles of warm, hard skin. Her eyes open in surprise and she blinks a few times in disbelief in seeing Jordan curled up in her bed, quite naked if what her thigh’s encountered is any indication.

Relief fills her when she looks at herself and sees she’s dressed in pajamas; she’d very much like to remember if they had sex, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.

Something dark and deathlike cold slithers through her and she finds her memories of last night returning full force... _oh_. The Morrigan’s warm, fond laughter echoes in her mind. _‘Worry not dearest daughter, you will not join except on your terms.’_

Lydia wonders if the lack of terror is because the Morrigan doesn’t want her to be afraid, or if she’s just not afraid of the goddess now inside her. The latter feels more right, but the former’s still a possibility. Lydia’s hand moves to rest on Jordan’s chest, the quick beat of his heart easing her lingering worries over him. For a second she lets her hand linger, thumb stroking his warm skin.

She soon pulls her hand away, her body's needs driving her.

A few minutes later she’s pulling on a robe and padding downstairs, the smell of pancakes and bacon reaching her nose the closer she gets to the kitchen. Despite knowing that everybody’d returned last night she still blinks back tears at seeing her mother in the kitchen, NPR on the radio; just like any other weekend.

“Mom,” it almost comes out a sob and before she knows it she’s hugging her mother, burying her face against her mom’s shoulder.

She doesn’t say anything in response, just wraps her arms around Lydia and gives a tight squeeze. “I guess I have you to thank for putting us all back,” warmth fills her mom’s voice and Lydia gives a weak laugh.

“Sure,” she agrees. “It was nothing.” Her mom rubs her hand up and down Lydia’s back for a moment before pulling away to flip the bacon.

Her mom gives one last squeeze before pulling away. “It was _not_ ‘nothing’, honey. I don’t know how you did it, but you shouldn’t brush it aside, you’re a hero.” The words comfort her more than Lydia expects them too.

She slides into one of the barstools at the counter. “Thanks mom,” her smile is warm and real.

“That’s what I’m here for.” She flips the pancakes on the griddle. “Now, how much is that deputy of yours going to eat?”

“Mom!” Even though Lydia can hear the teasing note she still finds herself blushing. “He’s not, we’re…”

A soft laugh leaves her mother. “I know Lydia, there were far too few clothes strewn about for you two to have had sex.” The words aren’t reassuring and Lydia finds her blush deepening. “I’m surprised he hasn’t woken up yet.” Her mom looks up as if she’ll be able to see through the ceiling to Lydia’s room.

Getting out of the chair Lydia grabs herself a plate and a glass of orange juice. “Jordan’s...had an exhausting day. I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t wake up until tonight.” The guess feels more right than it should, as if their bond has deepened somehow. Then again she can also feel the Hunt, if distantly; feel their joyous bloodlust as they do their dark work.

“More for you and me I guess,” her mom smiles as she serves up pancakes and bacon.

Lydia can’t help but smile as she digs in, finding herself happier than she can recall being in a long time.


End file.
